


The Wolf's Howl

by StarksInTheNorth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:40:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22484290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarksInTheNorth/pseuds/StarksInTheNorth
Summary: Their first daughter looks like a Targaryen- white hair, lilac eyes, long body. But everybody can see the North in her, can see the free folk in the way she speaks, can see the ice in her eyes, can see Robb, Cat, Ned, Rickon, and every Stark who ever walked in Westeros in her.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 7
Kudos: 60





	The Wolf's Howl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedarkeuphie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedarkeuphie/gifts).



> Based off a prompt I got in 2016; updated and edited since then.
> 
> I believe the prompt originally came from @thedarkeuphie based on my notes, but I could be wrong.

Arya turns out to be more like her namesake than either of her parents expected her to be. But she also looks less Stark than anyone north of the Neck. Her silver-white hair shimmers underneath the sun as she crawls around the godswood with her playmates and her lilac eyes sparkle in the firelight while her mother sings her to sleep at night.

Jon marvels as he watches his wife with their daughter in her lap, humming a soft, sweet lullaby from the Riverlands that she learned from her own mother. Despite the Valyrian in Arya's appearance, her face is as solemn as a statue in the crypts of Winterfell, and she can be as still and quiet as the godswood when she is angry.

“Our little wolf will have a strange life.” He settles besides Sansa and wraps an arm around her. Gently, Jon strokes a silver hair away from Arya's eyes and presses a kiss to her cheek.

Sansa kisses Arya’s forehead and sets her into the swinging cradle besides the hearth, where the fire can keep her warm. Sansa comes back to her husband's embrace and settles against his broad chest. “Aye, but a happy one. She'll have as much happiness as we can give her.”

As she grows into her long limbs and lithe body, Arya stays happy but grows away from her mother’s other wishes for a perfect little girl. Yet Sansa smiles at Arya's every escape from the sewing room and laughs hard whenever she eventually finds her daughter in the training yard or stables. Arya is half as good as her namesake was with a needle, with no patience to sit and practice bringing images to life with thread, but she is twice as good as any boy her age with a bow or sword. Jon indulges her every whim, practicing with her when she should be at her letters and him overseeing his command.

The other little girls of the castle whisper, to see the Targaryen girl run so free and wild, but the older women think differently beyond the harsh gossip.

To hear the old women at the washing well tell it, this Arya is Lyanna reborn, truly her father’s daughter. She rides as if the horse is an extension of her own legs, and from the minute Jon sets a sword in her hand she can best her brothers, elder and younger alike. Sansa insists that Arya learn her courtesies, and the girl can curtsy and play a tune on her bells well enough, but more and more of the Northern Princess’ time is spent learning to be a warrior.

Jon only begins to worry when he finds her sobbing in Sansa's solar.

It takes some coaxing to settle the young girl, and even more before she crawls out from beneath the little table. But once Jon kneels besides her and waits patiently, his little daughter throws herself into his arms.

"Now tell me, what's amiss, little wolf?"

“Lyra Flint said I’m not a true Northerner!” She cries against his shoulder. “She says that every Stark is dark and grey and that I don’t belong here because I look like Aunt Dany!”

He picks her up and paces to the window. Seven-years-old and hurt by the words of her peers; it is a familiar feeling that hurts even more when its in someone he knows he can protect. At this age, Jon discovered what being a bastard meant. 

“Your mother's hair is bright as a flame and her eyes are blue as the sea. But she’s more Northern than any Flint.” He says, trying to calm the mounting anger he feels towards Lyra, who is younger than Arya. Jon adjust his daughter so she's looking him in the eyes. “You are a Stark of Winterfell, no matter what anyone says. You will always be a Stark, Arya.”

“Really?” She rubs her purple eyes, so bright against her pale skin.

“Of course.” He tossles her hair. “Your grandmother was a wild thing like you, and they call her the Rose of the North in the songs. Don’t let Lyra’s words get to you. A wise man once told me, you must know who you are and wear your identity like armor. 

"Know this: you are a Targaryen in your features, but a Stark in your heart. You are a direwolf, and none can take that from you.”

“Yes, Father.”

His daughter grows strong, and reminds others often of their house, of their words. Never again does she cry for who she is, for the words of others, because wolves are stronger than the whistling winds.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think, then come hangout on [tumblr](https://www.starksinthenorth.tumblr.com) to talk about Jonsa, Jonerys, Daensa, OT3, ASOIAF, and GOT. I also take prompts in my [ask box](https://www.starksinthenorth.tumblr.com/ask/).


End file.
